once more, guiltily: if only that first time I had gone to his room to find out.
Instead, it was morning before he had discovered the dead body with its slit
throat and its horrifying grimace. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. Which
was odd. Because his father at fifty was physically a good example of the
healer’s art he anc” Alten both practised. Lying there in the light of day after
his death, his sprawled body looked as powerful and strong as that of his son at
thirty.
The vivid images of that past disaster faded. Stulwig sank back and down onto
the sheep fur. Covered himself. Listened in the continuing dark to the sound of
wind against a corner of his greenhouse. It was a strong wind; he could feel the
bedroom tremble. Moments later, he was still awake when he heard a faraway
muffled cry – someone being murdered out there in the Maze?
Oddly, that was the final steadying thought. It brought his inner world into
balance with the outer reality. After all, this was Sanctuary where, every hour
of each night, a life ended violently like a candle snuffed out.
At this time of early, early morning he could think of no purpose that he could
have about anything. Not with those dark, dirty, dusty, windblown streets. Nor
in relation to the sad dream that had brought him to shocked awareness. Nothing
for him to do, actually, but turn over, and-
He woke with a start. It was daylight. And someone was knocking at his outer
door two rooms away.
‘One moment!’ he called out.
Naturally, it required several moments. A few to tumble out of his night robe.